


What we have can't be taught

by alterocentrist



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Romance, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Columbia University's Thomas J Watson library, Sloan Sabbith, a senior economics major, literally runs into Don Keefer, a student at the School of Journalism. These are the unseen moments of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic because I refused to believe that the Don/Sloan interactions towards the end of Season 1 and throughout Season 2 came out of nowhere. These two bounce off against each other so well, they had to have a history, right? So I invented one for them! Oneshot for now, but I might think of some new moments to write about in the future. This is slightly edited from its original version on FanFiction.net

It started at Columbia University, when she had long hair, and so did he.

She rushed out of the Thomas J Watson Library, buttoning her jacket and stuffing books in her bag at the same time. She had been shin deep in textbooks on game theory when she remembered that she was meeting her parents - who had flown over from Chicago - for dinner that evening. And although they preached the merits of additional study, they also appreciated punctuality.

She had almost walked straight into a guy heading the opposite direction, but he deftly sidestepped - though she still clipped him on the shoulder. Hands on his hips, he reproached her: “Hey, watch it!”

The first thing she noticed was his wide, expressive brown eyes peeking out from the curls of dark hair that were partly covering his face. “I’m so sorry!” she cried. “I’m running late.”

"Volume, please." The library’s security guard was glaring at them.

The guy sneered at her before turning around and bounding up the stairs, without another word.

She spent so much time replaying and analysing that incident in her head that she was late for dinner.

* * *

 

"You must think I’m a real dick."

Her fork was poised over a slice of pie - chocolate pecan, he guessed, since this cafe was famous for it - and there was a tall glass of milkshake not far from her right wrist. “Since you’re chatting up girls in cafes, girls you don’t even know, then yes, you are a real di-” The words stopped in her throat when she realised who she was speaking to.

He shook his hair out of his eyes and laughed. “Cat got your tongue?” he teased. She glared at him, which amused him even more. “One, you’re the only girl I have talked to in this cafe, and it will probably remain that way. Two, I’m not chatting you up. I just recognised you and came to apologise. Three,” he frowned, “I don’t think I have a three.”

She placed a forkful of pie in her mouth and took her time chewing, then washed it down with a sip of her milkshake. “You came to apologise?”

"Yes." He shifted uncomfortably because he felt her watching him intently. "I’m sorry for what happened at the library. It was stupid of me to act that way because it wasn’t your fault."

"Apology accepted." Another forkful of pie.

He blinked rapidly. “Wait, that’s it? I expected more of a fight.”

The reply was much quicker this time. “I don’t know what kind of people you’ve offended before, but I don’t like to hold grudges,” she said easily. “And having this pie makes my mood inexplicably cheerful, so there’s that.” She held her left hand out, since the fork remained in her right. “I’m Sloan Sabbith.”

He warily took her hand. “Don Keefer, and left-handed handshakes are weird.”

"Sorry, pie is priority. I did some really complicated econometrics for four hours this morning and I deserve a break." Sloan shrugged. "Wait, Keefer? You’re the guy that does that literature segment on that NPR show on midnight on Monday."

"You listen to that?" Don was surprised. The reason why he - a grad student with not many contacts in the journalism world yet - did a ten-minute midnight segment on a weekly show was because the powers that be at NPR decided that he wouldn’t bring in any listeners. "No one talks about books anymore," one of the producers told him, but then they weren’t losing any money over him.

"I came across it while pulling an all-nighter. Faithful listener ever since."

"Really?" He put his hands on his hips. "How many of my segments have you listened to?"

Sloan hesitated. “Not including the first time, like, three?”

"How long ago was the first time?"

"Four months ago." She looked down shyly, but then looked up again and laughed. "Maybe not so faithful."

Don laughed too. “Depends on your definition of faith.”

"Then I’m a Christmas-Easter Christian," she said. "But hey, good show. It’s always interesting, learning about Ayn Rand and whatnot."

"I’ve never talked about Ayn Rand!"

Sloan was shaking her head. “Good for you. He’s boring and frankly, his free market proselytising in the form of novels with ‘tortured’,” that was in scare quotes, “characters is insulting to people who actually know a little bit about how economics really works.”

" _She_ ," Don corrected.

"Sorry?"

"Ayn Rand is a she.”

Sloan froze. “I read _Atlas Shrugged_ in my freshman year and I thought it was just pseudo-intellectual ruminations by a know-it-all male,” she lamented. “I think I need to reevaluate my life.” She dramatically stabbed the fork into her pie.

"You’re weird." Don shifted uncomfortably. "You go right ahead and do that. I’m gonna go get coffee now."

* * *

 

Sloan chewed the end of her pencil when Don slid into the seat next to her, pulling a laptop and several notebooks out of his satchel. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Thomas J Watson was Columbia’s library for business and economics, and Don had told her that he was a student at the School of Journalism.

"WKCR is giving me a fifteen-minute segment to talk about politics once a week," Don explained.

"Like, what politics?"

He rolled his eyes. “ _National_ politics, of course. And how the Bush administration is running us into debt with this war we’re getting into. So I’ve been reading the assortment of macroeconomic and finance books available in your _hallowed hall_ ,” he gestured grandly around the room, “Miss Sabbith.”

Sloan, suddenly interested, leaned forward. “Oh, I like war spending,” she said. “Or specifically, the impact it has on other areas of the budget, and the flow-on effects on the country. It’s all fascinating.”

"I’ve got an idea," said Don. "Why don’t you come on the show and talk about it with me? I’ll interview you."

"I’m a senior undergrad majoring in economics. I’m not qualified."

"Sure you are." Don waved dismissively. "Come on? I’ll never learn enough about this stuff without actual economics students ripping me into shreds, and you’re crazy smart so you’ll sound qualified."

Sloan sat back in her chair. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Don-Don.”

"Don’t call me that," he snapped. "So, will you come on my show? I can do a pre-interview off the record so we have an idea of what we’re going to talk about on air."

"I’m sorely tempted." Of course she was going to go on air, but that was the closest to a yes that Don Keefer would ever get from her about this matter. Even if he called her crazy smart.

* * *

 

Their bottles clinked together. “A toast before we see what the future holds for you,” Don declared, before taking a swig of his beer.

"I’ll drink to that." Sloan mimicked him. They sat on the floor of Sloan’s apartment, their backs resting against the couch, staring at the envelopes on the coffee table in front of them. Sloan’s grad school acceptance letters.

“So, which one should we open first? Big one or little one?” asked Don.

"There are only two of them, Don," Sloan told him. "One’s an acceptance and one’s a rejection."

"You went to pick this up from your mailbox, had a glance at the school logos and so you already know which school you’re getting accepted to! Why are we having beer over this then?"

"I like the pomp and circumstance that a good hoppy brew signifies!"

"You’re weird."

Sloan smiled. “You told me that the first time we were properly introduced.”

"Only because it’s true," said Don. "Have you told your parents about it yet?"

"Yeah, they’re arriving tomorrow afternoon and we’re having a celebratory dinner," she replied. "I would invite you but we’ll never hear the end of it from my parents."

Don cocked his head to the side. “Why’s that?”

Sloan started to speak in a higher pitched voice. “Oh, honey, if he got a haircut, he’d be a _wonderful_ guy for you!” She switched to a deeper voice. “I agree, pumpkin. And if he knows a bit about economics, we’ll get along well.” Back to the high-pitched voice. “Didn’t you say you and him did radio shows about the federal budget? He’s _perfect_!” The deeper voice: “Great! Let’s set a wedding date!”

"Oh wow."

"Yeah, so inviting you to dinner is a no go. They’d put us on the next flight to Vegas to be married by someone dressed up as John Maynard Keynes. And they’d start going on about grandchildren, and how your eyelashes are unusually long and how our babies will have the most adorable curly black hair." Sloan caught herself. "But ew, that means having sex with you."

Coughing awkwardly, Don changed the subject. “Are you going to open a letter or should I do the honours?”

"God, you’re so impatient." Sloan picked up the smaller envelope and handed it to him. "You get the reject letter."

"Awesome," said Don. He tore into it without much reverence and pulled the impeccably folded sheet of paper out. " _Dear Miss Sabbith, we regret to inform you…_ " he trailed off. His eyes flicked back to the letterhead. "The Massachusetts Institute of Technology rejected _you_? _Seriously_?”

"Their PhD in economics is math-heavy, and my grasp of econometrics probably falls short compared to other applicants," said Sloan.

Don knew that she knew that her math was excellent, but he also knew that Sloan was more interested in economic history than econometrics, so she would have been a weird fit at MIT. “Open yours.” He nodded at the big envelope.

Sloan picked it up and opened it carefully. She pulled the letter out and began reading: “ _Dear Miss Sabbith, we are pleased to inform you…_ " She looked up and grinned.

Don looked at the logo on the back of the envelope. “Duke University,” he said. “You’re going to _North Carolina_ for grad school?”

Sloan gave him a funny look. “Well, that’s where Duke University is, isn’t it?”

"Sloan."

"Yes, I am," said Sloan. "It’s a five-year programme."

The air around Don suddenly felt heavy. “North Carolina for five years? I was kinda hoping you’d stay in New York or had gotten into MIT. We could hang out more that way,” he said.

"You’re staying in New York?" Sloan looked confused. "I thought you had that job in DC lined up."

He did receive a job offer from a radio station in DC, but: “No, I accepted a job here instead.”

"Where?"

"ACN. I’ll be an associate producer for Will McAvoy’s show. The president of the news division offered me the job himself, on recommendation from Mackenzie McHale, the EP who got me the internship there last summer," he told Sloan.

"Mackenzie? The British lady who came by WKCR the night you did another segment on the government budget with me? Loud, flapping hands?" Sloan asked.

Don nodded. “That’s the one.”

"Wow." Sloan tilted her head back on the couch. "Don-Don on cable news."

He lifted a finger. “It’s behind the scenes, and don’t call me Don-Don.” Sloan ignored him. “I can turn my TV on, tune into ACN, and see you on the news. It’ll be so trippy.”

"I’m going to be behind the scenes! You’ll see my name in the credits or something."

"Yeah? Donald Keefer?"

"My name isn’t Donald."

Sloan raised an eyebrow. “So what’s ‘Don’ short for, then?” she asked.

"It’s not short for anything," Don replied. "It’s just Don." He rolled his eyes. "Don’t look at me like that. I have two older sisters with elaborate names. They got lazy when they had me."

"Don Keefer, associate producer at ACN." Sloan smiled. "I like it. It’s a good fit." She pulled her phone out. "Well, since we’re both getting ahead in life, we should celebrate properly. I’m ordering pan fried potstickers and barbecue pork buns." She jabbed a button on her phone and held it to her ear, waiting for someone to pick up.

"Wait, you’re ordering Chinese food that isn’t sweet and sour pork and vegetable fried rice?"

Sloan glared at him. “If I had it my way we’re going to have sushi, but you hate any sign of raw fish in close proximity, so we’re having Chinese street food instead. I got into Duke, so deal with it.”

"Fine," Don relented. A thought came to him. He put his beer bottle down, stood up, and shrugged into his jacket.

Sloan hurriedly finished ordering and hung up. “Where are you going?” she called after him. “Do you really hate Chinese food that much?”

"I’ll be back, promise," said Don. He stepped out the door and rushed to the elevators. When he returned around an hour later, Sloan was unpacking the still steaming food out of the containers and onto plates.

“Where did you go?” she asked him.

Don walked over to her and set a box down. “You said we should celebrate, so I got this.” He opened it. “Chocolate pecan pie. Your favourite, right?”

Sloan gasped and threw her arms around him. “My parent’s reservation at Del Posto has nothing on this.” They sat at the table and helped themselves to the potstickers and pork buns.

“Hey,” said Don. “We’re going to keep in touch, right? When you go to Duke?” He chewed on his lip. He hated being sentimental.

"Of course we are," Sloan said.

* * *

 

To make it in Wall Street, one must learn how to play a prep school sport at an acceptable level. Sloan chose to start playing tennis. She took up swimming in her Chicago prep school, but that didn’t work in her new world. You couldn’t make business deals when you were underwater. Even if you had two doctorates.

Her opponent - a tenacious blonde with a Wharton MBA - excused herself to get orange juice from the country club’s kitchen. The woman had a near encyclopedic knowledge of finance, but she was a mediocre tennis player. So mediocre that Sloan had to let herself lose just so she could close the deal. She was taking a long drag from her water bottle when someone behind her drawled, “ _Sloan Sabbith_. I never thought I’d see the day.”

She turned around to face Don Keefer, equally sweaty in his black shorts and loose-fitting blue polo shirt, his fingers curled casually around a racket handle. His hair was shorter than it was when they were at Columbia, but since he had clearly been running around, some curls flopped over his forehead. "Don!" she exclaimed cheerfully, giving him a hug. "I’m sorry, moving back to New York was busier than I expected. I’ve been here three weeks and I haven’t even had a day off yet."

"Yet here you are, playing tennis," he remarked dryly.

"It’s for work," she told him. "I’m wooing a client."

"Ah, the grind of the bourgeois," he said, smirking.

"Oh, shut up, you work for a media conglomerate." Sloan swatted him lightly on the arm. "Are you here for business or for pleasure?"

"Pleasure," said Don. "And business. My buddy is visiting from California. He’s doing press for a GOP politician, and he wanted some tips from someone who works in the press. That’s where I come in."

"Selling secrets to the Republicans?"

"Well, he’s also lobbying to get a patsy interview for his candidate with Will McAvoy, but after what he said about the Bush administration’s fiscal irresponsibility, Will’s trying to get his approval ratings back up so he’ll agree to anything that’ll make the GOP look good, so I don’t know why we’re even playing, to be honest."

"You’re still an associate producer?"

"Yeah, still doing the hard yards, but at least I don’t have to watch the desk anymore. I’m the EP’s little shadow in the control room. It’s good fun." Don laughed. "And I think I’m up for a promotion soon. It has been five years, after all. If not, I’ll ask for one. So, Wall Street, huh?"

"Doing the hard yards, too. Can you believe it?" Sloan flapped her hands aimlessly. "And I have to take the bus back to the city after this. I don’t have a car."

A man walked up behind Don. “Hey, you ready for another game?”

Don jerked his thumb at him. “I gotta go,” he told Sloan. “Call me, we should do lunch or dinner or something.”

"Or something," repeated Sloan. "But yeah, I definitely will."

When she got on the bus later that afternoon, she was surprised to see Don sitting in it.

"I don’t have a car either, so I saved you a seat."

* * *

Don fidgeted with the wristband of his watch. “Uhm, I like your haircut,” he told Sloan. The bob - a huge contrast from the long, relatively shapeless hair she had at Columbia - was a refreshing change. “It’s very Wall Street.”

"Okay, this is weird." Sloan was examining his face. "We never go out to eat. We usually buy takeout and go to my apartment and watch funny cats on YouTube." Don suggested going for dinner at an upmarket Thai restaurant on the Upper West Side, and he knew that Sloan had to be confused. She had greasy pizza and dubious curry with him, and now he’s taking her with a place with actual silverware? She knew something was up.

He laced his fingers together on top of the table. “I have a proposition.”

Sloan stopped fussing with the napkin on her lap for one second. “Shit.”

"Oh no, it’s nothing bad," said Don. "But how would you like to be an anchor for ACN’s _Market Wrap-Up_ at four in the afternoon on weekdays?”

Sloan’s jaw dropped. “You’re asking me to work on TV.”

"Yes, I am," said Don. "I’m sorry. I eavesdropped on a conversation between Will and Charlie, because Charlie was asking if Will knew anyone who would be good to anchor the _Market Wrap-up_. I told them that I know of someone with two doctorates in economics, and has experience in talking about economics in a journalistic manner, and that this someone comes from a long line of economists.” He said this all in one breath.

" _A long line_? Don!” Sloan’s eyes were wide in exasperation. “Only my father is an economist. I’m a second generation economist.”

Don shook his head apologetically. “I know, I know,” he said. “Anyway, they were kind of annoyed that I was eavesdropping so they told me to take you to dinner, suggest the idea, and then if you say yes, take you to meet them so they can see if you’re right for the job. Please say yes. Even if they say no to you in the end.”

"You took me out to a nice dinner so you wouldn’t look stupid for your bosses?" Sloan demanded.

"Does it really sound that bad?"

"Yes, it does. _Jesus Christ_ , Don!" Sloan exhaled. "I hope you’re paying for this dinner, and I hope your bosses reject me."

Don started to nod, and mentally prepared a grovelling apology, but he stopped. “Wait, you’re agreeing to meet them?” he asked.

"I suppose I should, if you’ll look stupid turning up empty handed." Sloan’s chin was raised in pride. "Besides, if I’m as awesome as you made me sound, then maybe they’re intrigued to meet me."

Don felt relief wash over him. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll make it up to you. Order anything you want, then we’ll go for your favourite gelato place after. My treat.” He didn’t tell Sloan he was paying for the dinner using the Atlantis World Media company credit card Charlie had lent him.

* * *

Sloan was watching the stock market on her computer screen when there was a light rapping on her door. “Don,” she said warily. “Is everything okay?”

Don stepped into her office. “I heard you’re doing an economic forecast segment for _News Night_. That’s great exposure. Congratulations.”

"I’m not doing it for the exposure. Mackenzie said people would be inclined to watch an economic forecast if it’s delivered by someone like me, and it’s not because of my extensive knowledge of macroeconomic theory." She frowned. "She said it was because of my legs. Can you _believe_ that?"

"Oh, I know Mac. I’m sure she holds your expertise in the highest esteem."

"Remember when Charlie hired me for _Market Wrap-Up_ three years ago?”

"How could I forget?" Sloan couldn’t keep the bite out of her voice. “We were waiting in his office, then he returns from his liquid lunch, yelling about how he’s ready to meet the geek that you brought in, then he stops when he sees me and says, ‘You’d look good reporting about the markets in a bikini. You’re hired.’”

Don cringed. “Well, if you can’t forget that, I hope you won’t forget that conversation we had about how Charlie is a crazy idiot that is insecure that a woman who looks like you can outsmart him at fantasy football,” he said.

Sloan looked him straight in the eye. “How could I forget?” That was the last proper conversation they had before Mackenzie suddenly resigned to become an embed in Afghanistan. Don was promoted to senior producer, or more appropriately, the referee between Will and the string of poor sods that were hired to be Mackenzie’s replacement. His hours racked up to an absurd point that there was virtually no time to sit back and watch cat videos over a beer with his oldest friend. Neither of them acknowledged that they had begun to drift apart.

"It’s cool though, you at _News Night_ ,” said Don. “You can stay on later than you used to after _Market Wrap-up_ and maybe we’ll get to see each other more often.”

"Maybe." Don put his hands on his hips.

“Sloan.” She glared at him. “What? I’ve got work to do.” Her eyes returned to her computer screen.

"All right." Don sighed. He started walking towards the door.

"You and Maggie, huh?" she posed the question to his back. "One of Will’s APs."

"She was actually his assistant, and even that was an accidental hire," Don turned back to face her and gestured aimlessly, "but what about me and Maggie?"

"She’s nice. And she seems to be good for you." Don raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that we’re involved?”

"You just did," Sloan said, smirking. "Don’t worry about it, Don. It’s like the worst kept secret in the newsroom. Only second to the fact that Will cheated on Mac, and that’s why she went to Afghanistan."

"Really now? Did you get that verified or is that hearsay?"

" _Don-Don_. Who in their right mind would cheat on Mac?"

"Don’t call me that," said Don, but he didn’t mean it. "I meant me and Maggie. Who verified?"

"I heard rumours from the _News Night_ APs. Then Mackenzie told me that Maggie told her," replied Sloan. "And you’re my third source."

“Dammit.”

"Hey, go easy on Maggie," said Sloan. "And don’t pull a Will. I know you’ve got a track record with women, but you’re better than that."

"Sloan. You and me," he said slowly. "How come I didn’t mess us up?"

"What we have can’t be taught," Sloan said, shrugging.

* * *

Barack Obama was reelected President of the United States. The Democrats held onto the Senate, and the Republicans held onto the House of Representatives. The Congress had more women, more ethnic minorities, and their first female war veterans. And Don Keefer woke up in bed with Sloan Sabbith. They were in her apartment. Judging by the fact that Don slept in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and Sloan was wearing a Duke t-shirt over yoga pants, so he was sure they didn’t have sex. They just slept together after an exhausting, yet jubilant, night.

"What time is it?" Sloan slurred, half-asleep.

Don peeked at her bedside clock. “It’s almost two in the afternoon.”

Sloan sat up. “Oh god, _seriously_? We’re late for work!”

"I doubt anyone else but Will and Mac are awake. They’ll probably get the weekend crew in for today, writing copy for Will as he does the post-election breakdown," said Don. "I wouldn’t worry about it. They would have called us in three hours ago if they really needed us."

"Good." She reclined against the pillows. "So, you like post-war economic history, too?"

Don pouted. “I honestly thought I’d be bidding on a dinner and a movie, but then I saw your book and no one was bidding on it, despite the fact that you had touched it, so I got my buddies on it - as long as I won, of course.”

"By ‘your buddies’, you mean your motley crew of fictional characters and your _uncanny_ talent to change your penmanship," said Sloan.

"That uncanny talent means I’m allowed to do this now.” Don leaned over and kissed Sloan chastely, but slowly, on the lips. Sloan’s eyes were still shut and a ghost of a smile was on her face when Don pulled away.

“Yes, you are very much allowed to do that,” she said. She tugged at his shirt, asking for another kiss. When this one ended, she breathed: “Hey, guess what?”

"What?" asked Don.

"We won’t be living in Romney’s America. The lesser evil won."

Don tenderly tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “Is that a cause to celebrate?”

"Yes, it is." Sloan slid out of bed, opened her wardrobe and started pulling out items of clothing. She disappeared into the bathroom to get changed.

"Sloan? What’s going on?" Don called after her.

Sloan returned and stood by her bed, fully dressed for the damp, post-hurricane weather. She picked up Don’s phone and handed it to him.

“Call our Chinese place for potstickers and barbecue pork buns. They should be delivered here by the time I get back.” She zipped her boots up and pushed her arms through the sleeves of her peacoat.

"Where are you headed?" Don had to ask, even though the smile on his face told her that he already knew the answer.

"I’m going to get chocolate pecan pie."


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking up of more scenes since I published the last one, and I just thought it would be a cool small anniversary gift for my girlfriend, who is even more of a Don x Sloan shipper as I am. This practically wrote itself. It's not a continuation of what happened from last time, but instead, adds to the scenes in the previous chapter. Enjoy!

A six pack of Sloan’s favourite ale in one hand, Don banged on her apartment door. He was on his third set of three knocks when Sloan finally opened it. “I’m sorry about what Charlie said. He’s real old school chauvinist like that and I’m sure he’ll value your intelligence as much as he values your good loo-” he stopped when he noticed that Sloan was wearing a navy blue dress - clearly dressed to go out. “Is this a bad time?”

“You can’t be here.” Sloan started shoving him towards the elevator.

“What? Why?”

Her reply was spoken through gritted teeth. “My parents are here.”

“Sloan? Honey? Who’s that?” A man’s voice called out from inside the apartment.

Sloan turned around. “Oh, no one, Dad, it’s just a friend!” she responded cheerfully.

“A _friend_?”

Don heard the noises of people getting up from the couch and walking towards the door. The first person he saw was a man of average height, dressed in a smart black suit and lavender shirt, and a shorter woman in a dress of a similar shade. Sloan bore resemblance to both of them in different ways.

“Sloan,” the woman spoke, “aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“Mom, Dad,” Sloan sighed, “this is Don Keefer, he’s the friend that got me the job at ACN. Don, these are my parents, Andrew and Wendy Sabbith.”

Don stepped forward to shake their hands. “Pleased to meet you.”

Andrew Sabbith ran his eyes over Don. “So, you’re the one who helped my daughter out at ACN.” He turned to his daughter. “Hey, why don’t you ask Don to join us for coffee before we head off to the restaurant?”

Wendy was also appraising Don. “Coffee, and invite him for dinner too,” she told Sloan. “Otherwise he’d probably just have that beer for dinner, won’t you, Don?”

“Oh yes, absolutely, you can come to dinner with us,” Andrew agreed eagerly. “We’re celebrating our daughter’s new career as ACN’s financial news anchor.”

“Uhm,” Sloan fumbled, “I’m sure Don’s busy tonight. Aren’t you, Don?”

“No, it’s a Saturday, so I’m perfectly free,” he said. “I’d love to join you for dinner. I’ll even text Mackenzie and tell her that I’m off the grid for tonight, if you want.”

“You go ahead and do that, because the restaurant we’re going to has the most exquisite dishes. You wouldn’t want to be distracted,” Andrew told him. “Let’s come inside.” He and his wife stepped back to let Sloan and Don step in. His wife went to the kitchen, murmuring something about getting a mug for him.

Don looked at Sloan. She was glaring at him. He shrugged.

“Do you take sugar or cream in your coffee, Don?” Wendy asked.

“Cream please,” Don said, as he settled into the armchair next to the couch, while Sloan sat across from him in the other armchair, still glaring. “Two packets if you can spare it.”

“Of course.” Wendy came over and handed up a mug of hot, fragrant coffee, before sitting down next to her husband. “Sloan never told us about you. Tell me, Don, how long have you two known each other?”

“We met at Columbia. We were both in the last year of our studies.”

Andrew’s eyes widened. “You’re an economist, too?”

Don shook his head. He noticed that Sloan couldn’t help snorting. “No, I was in my last year of journalism school when I got my own radio show for the campus station. I had to do a show on economics, and my go-to economist at the time was this girl that literally bumped into me at Thomas J Watson. I wouldn’t have forgiven her if I didn’t discover that she was an economics major.”

“You were the one who bumped into me!” Sloan exclaimed. “You didn’t even help me pick up my books.”

Wendy was grinning. “Well, that sounds like Sloan. She’s always been a little bit clumsy,” she chuckled. “So, you’re a producer at ACN?”

 “Yes, I am, but not for Sloan’s show,” Don replied. “I’m on the team of _News Night with Will McAvoy_.”

 “I do like that fellow,” Andrew said. “But he doesn’t cover the economy as comprehensively as he could. It’s very shallow, and I think I heard him mischaracterising the concept of the debt ceiling on air once.”

 "Admittedly, before Sloan, there wasn’t really any journalist in ACN that’s properly equipped to cover economics,” Don said.

 “You don’t say.” Andrew regarded his daughter with pride. “Two doctorates in economics and I’m glad that she’s using it to inform other people.”

 Don inched forward in his seat. “You got something against Wall Street, sir?”

“I think they’re something wrong with a society that believes that a block of stock trading offices should be regarded as a proper neighbourhood in a city like New York just because the global economy rests upon it. That, and what a poor use of a valuable degree!” The older man laughed heartily.

 “Dad always thought that I’d follow in his footsteps and be an academic,” Sloan said.

 “You can still be one, Sloan,” Andrew said. “When _Market Wrap-up_ takes off, NYU, Columbia, CUNY, Barnard - they’ll all be wanting to get you as an adjunct professor. Trust me on that one.”

Don addressed Sloan’s mother this time. “So, Mrs Sabbith, what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer for ACLU in Illinois,” she replied. “I specialise in women’s rights, immigrants rights and reproductive rights.”

“Doesn’t reproductive rights come under women’s rights?” Judging by the expression on Sloan’s face, he may have asked that question too quickly.

But Wendy was gracious. “Of course not. It’s not only women that possess ovaries, you know.”

Don paused to consider. “Gotcha.”

“I knew you would.” She nodded approvingly.

“Well, I can tell where Sloan gets the strong sense of justice from, then,” Don said.

“And the good looks,” Andrew chimed in.

Wendy waved the two men off, but she was still smiling. “Oh stop.” Her eyes flicked to the clock hanging on the wall. “We better go now, otherwise we’ll be late for dinner. Come on, Sloan, let’s go pick some shoes. You promised to lend me those new Louboutins you bought.” She stood up and used her hand to guide Sloan to her shoe rack.

Don self-consciously tugged at his wrinkled button down shirt as Andrew smoothed down his suit. “I apologise I didn’t dress a lot more appropriately,” he said. “I had no idea that you guys were flying in, let alone inviting me to dinner.”

“Sloan didn’t tell you?” Andrew looked at him curiously. “I wonder if she’s embarrassed of us,” he mused. His tone inferred that he was only half-joking.

They watched as mother and daughter discussed their footwear for the evening. “Nah, maybe she’s embarrassed of me,” Don said.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Sloan said. Her mother was wearing her new Louboutins, but she was wearing a good pair of heels as well. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, we shall.” Andrew offered his arm to his wife, and they exited the apartment first.

Don and Sloan walked side by side. “So,” Don said, smirking. “How am I doing?”

“Oh, screw you.” 

* * *

“I’m Sloan Sabbith and thanks for watching _Market Wrap-up_. Stay tuned for our ACN’s five o’clock news bulletin, coming up next.” Sloan finished her broadcast to the sound of slow clapping. The camera operators never did that.

“Bravo, _bravo_!” It was Don. "That was sublime."

Sloan hopped off her seat and walked past him, and through the studio doors. “Don’t you have a show to help produce?”

Don followed her out to the hallway. “Yes but not until you tell me about the meeting you had yesterday. Are you leaving us so soon, Sabbith?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Sloan said. “It was a meeting with Columbia University.”

“Are they extorting you for your hard-earned alumna money already? They haven’t started on me yet because I’ve still got student loans to pay off.”

“Nope.”

“Then what?”

“They offered me an adjunct professorship. Teaching Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”

“On what?”

“Comparative macroeconomic histories of Germany and Japan in the 1920s. It’s a sophomore course.”

Don looked at her blankly. “Sorry, you lost me right there.”

Sloan hit his arm.

Don winced. “What the hell?”

“Be more supportive!”

Don rubbed his arm. “I am being supportive! I have loads of support for you. But I’m giving it away in little chunks at a time.”

Sloan cocked her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“You’re going to be teaching _twenty-year-olds_.” He made a face. “Think about how you were when you were twenty.”

“Twenty.” Sloan’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I was delightful, just like I am now, except I have a better haircut now, of course.”

“Everyone was an obnoxious idiot when they were twenty!” Don insisted.

“I was an exception.”

“You studied economics at Columbia.” Don opened Sloan’s office door for her and let her in first.

“And you studied politics at Georgetown,” Sloan retorted. “We were just as elite and as insufferable as each other, but no, I was not insufferable at all. Wait a minute, why are you in my office?”

Don’s face sobered. “Okay, I’m gonna tell you something. Just our little secret for now, okay?”

“Is it bad? Did you get offered a higher paying job at Fox or something?”

“Mackenzie’s resigning.”

Sloan’s jaw dropped. “Why?”

“I don’t know. No one knows,” he answered. “That’s between her, Will and Charlie. But the point is, she’s resigning and I’m getting promoted.”

“To executive producer?”

Don shook his head. “Senior producer. Rob’s moving up to EP,” he said. “I’m in charge of the APs, and I’m in charge of putting the rundown together for him and Will. I think it’ll be a good fit for me.”

“I thought Rob was a senior producer because that means he didn’t have to work all that closely with Will since they don’t get along.” Sloan was rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “And don’t you have more training in being an EP?”

“Seniority,” Don said, shrugging. “Anyway, this warrants a celebration. Do you want to go have drinks after Will’s show?”

“At Hang Chew’s?” She didn’t know most of the people on the News Night staff and she would feel awkward if she had to celebrate with them.

“I was thinking just the two of us at my place. I think I have beer, and we can order pizza?”

“You don’t want to celebrate with your colleagues.”

“It would be douchey of me to celebrate. Will is on the warpath and everyone’s a little on edge right now,” Don said. “And we haven’t spent time together in ages. Come on, professor, I’ll even put on those inanely stupid Gordon Gecko movies you seem to enjoy so much.”

“Those movies are not inanely stupid!” Sloan exclaimed. “God, I don’t even know why I hang out with you.” 

* * *

 Not without hesitation, Don knocked on Sloan’s apartment door. It swung open almost immediately.

 "Don.” She looked exhausted - being chewed out by Charlie Skinner did that to you - and she wore sweatpants and a Duke t-shirt.

“Are you okay?” Don mentally kicked himself. It was a stupid question to ask. It had been over twenty-four hours since the incident with the Tepco representative, and Sloan had just been forced - by _Charlie Skinner_ , of all people - to lie on air. “Don’t answer that. I know you’re not.” He showed her the paper bag in his hand. “Pie place is closed this time of night but I got your favourite burger.”

“Thanks.” Sloan snatched the bag out of his hand. “I haven’t eaten.”

“Can I come in?” Don asked.

“I suppose you can,” Sloan said. She went off to sit on the couch, leaving Don to lock the door.

He sat on the couch next to her. “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier.”

“Don’t be.” Sloan unwrapped her burger. “I deserved it. I should have understood what was at stake. But hey, I feel worse about having to lie on the air.”

“That must have sucked.”

Sloan snorted. “Must have sucked having to help me write the copy for it.”

“It was nothing.” Don shrugged dismissively. “Ethics was never my strong suit either.”

Sloan didn’t laugh. “I think it’s true, Don,” she said slowly.

“What? Of course you have value to ACN as a reporter!” he said incredulously. “I told you not to listen to Charlie.”

“I meant _Maggie_. You’re losing Maggie.”

* * *

Sloan watched as he entered Hang Chew’s. His posture was the worst she had ever seen it. Slumped shoulders accentuated the fact that he didn’t iron his shirt, and his bowed head only showed how unkempt his hair had become. When he raised his head, his beautifully sad, brown eyes instantly locked with hers.

She felt bad. She wrote prisoners often, and Don got the idea of writing to Troy Davis from her. Journalists are discouraged to be invested, but journalists are human, after all. Even if they were hotshot EPs from the Columbia School of Journalism. “I can get you a beer and a bowl of fries,” was all she could say.

Don shook his head. “Actually, I have some beer at home. I wanted to ask if you wanted to tag along with me,” he said.

“Sure.” Next thing she knew, she was hailing a cab for them. Don slid silently into the backseat, followed by her. She relayed the address of his apartment to the driver while buckling her seatbelt. Not a word was said during the entire ride.

They sat on the floor by his couch. Don cracked open a beer and handed it to her, and then he opened one for himself. “God, I really screwed this one up,” he said. “I thought I had it. I thought I was doing the right thing, and that it was gonna turn out okay.”

Sloan lifted a finger. “Inappropriate question, but is this about Troy Davis or is this about what happened between you and Maggie?”

“Both.” He didn’t seem offended or even fazed by her question. “I was trying to be the good guy.”

“You don’t have to try, Don. You are a good guy.”

“Oh, _bullshit_ ,” Don scoffed. “An innocent man is dead and it hasn’t even been a month and Maggie already had to get cartons.”

“Neither of which is your fault!” Sloan told him firmly. “Troy Davis isn’t dead because you failed, he’s dead because the entire system was built to fail against someone like him. And Maggie had to get cartons because you guys finally got the courage to be honest with yourselves.”

“You really think Maggie and I didn’t love each other?”

“Sure you did,” Sloan replied. “But maybe not as much as you two wanted to.”

Don looked at her. “You were never good at this sort of thing.”

“Perhaps I’m not as bad as I claimed to be,” Sloan said, shrugging.

“I really thought I could change something.” Don took a long drag from his beer bottle. “Is it so wrong to be idealistic about this country?”

“Somebody’s got to be.”

* * *

Don didn’t know when they first started playing chess. It was sometime when they were in Columbia, when he noticed a chessboard lurking on Sloan’s bookshelf, and asked her casually about her playing ability. It was their favourite activity when they both needed to think. And right now, they were ruminating over Operation Genoa.

“Corruption in the administration, I can buy. Human rights violations committed by our troops in Afghanistan, I can buy.” Sloan moved her bishop to capture one of Don’s knights. “But a war crime? That Jerry did always seem like a gunner to me.”

“You know, Mac asked me if I trusted him.” Don moved his other knight to safety.

“And what did you say?”

“I said yes. But I was lying. I think she knew that, but she’d rather believe the lie.”

“Don!”

“I’m guessing you don’t trust him.”

“You don’t either. You know why? He’s not one of us,” Sloan said. “He’s not 2.0.”

 “I’m not 2.0,” he grumbled bitterly. “In fact, Jim and Mac tried to make that clear the first few months they were here. I’m the guy who ditched Will. The guy who only realised that he was good enough to do the show Charlie wanted Will to until he left.” His queen captured Sloan’s rook. “Check.”

Sloan moved her king. “You did the hard yards. Proved your worth.”

"I was the guy Mackenzie could have taken to Afghanistan, but I stayed to be loyal to Will, yet _I_ was the one accused of not being loyal?” Don wasn’t listening to her. He moved her queen back to avoid it being captured by her bishop, capturing a stray pawn in the process. “It was my newsroom. They came into _my_ newsroom, and they came into take over two weeks early, essentially discrediting the years of hard work that I’ve done to become an EP. You know that. You saw me.”

“No. I know that because I never saw you,” Sloan said. “Don Keefer, you’re the best guy I know. You’re a great journalist and a great friend. The teams at _Right Now_ and _News Night_ would all walk into fire for you. So you need to stop beating yourself up. Mac trusts you now, and that’s what matters. Jerry Dantana is who we have to worry about here, not you.”

“You know what’s interesting?”

“What?”

“Mac and I literally just had a conversation like this. About trust.”

“I figured.” Sloan nodded. “When was it?”

“Two nights ago, I think. When you were out with that Jets player.” He hesitated. “How did _that_ go, by the way?”

“He actually plays for the Giants, and I don’t want to talk about it.” Sloan moved her bishop. “Check.”

Don moved his king out of the way. “Are you seeing him again?” He didn’t look her in the eye.

“Probably not. What’s it to you?” But Sloan didn’t wait for an answer, because she cheered right after moving her queen. “Checkmate!”

* * *

Adrenaline was coursing through Sloan’s veins. She had just driven her knee through a guy’s balls, and punched him in the face. She couldn’t remember if that would be grounds for an assault charge, but she knew Scott wouldn’t dare make that public.

Don was in the cab with her, restlessly scrolling Twitter on his phone. After getting a midnight coffee with him after dropping by Scott’s apartment, he insisted on coming to her apartment and sleeping on her couch, in case the ex-boyfriend followed them back. Not that Don stood a chance against him. He wore long-sleeved, loose-fitting shirts often to hide his soft belly and flabby arms. On the other hand, Scott got his shirts especially tailored to show off his musculature.

But Sloan didn’t really need anyone’s protection. “You can go home, you know. Sleep in your own bed.”

“For the last time, Sloan,” Don didn’t even bother looking up at her, “I insist.”

“Fine.” Sloan looked out the window. Unconsciously, the knuckles of her right hand brushed against the inside of the car door. She winced.

Don looked up this time. “You okay?”

“My hand just kinda hurts.”

He tutted disapprovingly. “Well, that usually happens when you hit someone with a face sculpted by a Greek god.”

Sloan gasped. “That’s an insult to the talent of the Greek gods.”

“You may be onto something.” Don laughed. He looked at his watch. “Hey, it took you almost forty-five minutes to realise that you’re in pain. That’s impressive.”

Impressive. Don had called her impressive for the second time that night. What did he mean? Did he mean it? Sloan, taking a chance, opened her mouth to ask him.

But the cab stopped. Don paid the driver, and chuckled at the blank look on Sloan’s face. “Hey, come on,” he urged her gently, but teasingly at the same time. “Get out of the cab so we can get some sleep.”


End file.
